


Balance Beam

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Tongues Will Wag [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Blindfolds, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Smut, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke's responsibilities in Kirkwall leave her too stressed for her own good. Isabela knows exactly how to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balance Beam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ayyitsellie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayyitsellie/gifts).



> This prompt was absolutely lovely, and I do hope you enjoy what it inspired!

Hawke's estate was magnificent.

If anyone else had lived there, Isabela would have robbed them blind. As it stood, she borrowed a dress here or a bauble there, and Hawke didn't even _notice_ unless she left a note.

Hawke hardly noticed anything, these days. Something had to be done.

"With your mother gone—the poor dear—you'll need someone else to help with your affairs, Champion." Dulci de Launcet's voice drifted up from the lower level of the library.

"I'm afraid I have all the help I can stand," Hawke replied. Isabela heard the shuffle of paper, the clink of tea cup against saucer. "You wouldn't believe how easily two servants and a dog can get underfoot."

"Not _that_ kind of help." Dulci laughed, simpering, and without peering down at the pair of them, Isabela could see Hawke's eyes narrowing. Her stony silence was everything. " _Emotional_ support. It must get terribly lonely, all by yourself in this estate. I'm sure your mother would have agreed—you need a _husband_ , my dear. Guillaume has a nephew, you know, about your age, with respectable ties…"

"I'm afraid I would ruin the poor boy's life." Hawke's voice was meant to be joking, but it emerged too sharp for that. "What man could stand to be married to the Champion of Kirkwall? He'd live forever in my shadow, resenting me."

"You won't be Champion forever." Isabela couldn't help herself; she peeked over the balcony to get a good look at Dulci's face, which had soured considerably.

"Indeed. Corpses are ineligible for the title."

Dulci replaced her tea and rose, letting out a wan chuckle. "It's something to think about."

"I will give it the consideration it deserves." Hawke nodded to her guest. "Please give my greetings to Guillaume."

Dulci curtseyed and departed; Bodahn shut the library door behind her.

"You can come out now." Hawke reached for the bottle of whiskey on the side table and poured a generous measure into her tea, sighing. When she replaced the bottle, she scooped up the stack of missives waiting for her instead.

Isabela arranged herself carefully on the banister, balancing on her toes, and then gave a little hop to get her feet off the ground. She slid neatly to the bottom of the stairs. Hawke's lips didn't even twitch at her landing; indeed, she was already frowning at the top missive in the stack, her nose scrunched up with distaste.

"You need a break," Isabela declared, sitting down across from her. She swiped the bottle of whiskey from the side table and took a long pull.

"Mmm. Tell that to Meredith. If I don't keep frustrating her efforts to worm into the viscount's empty seat, Kirkwall is going to become even more of a shithole than it already is." Hawke scribbled something out on the paper. "Bran is boring, but at least he's not tearing up every cobblestone in search of blood magic. He can't hold the office on his own, though."

"You're not thinking of replacing Dumar," Isabela said, aghast.

Hawke actually laughed at that; she held her stomach and _crowed_ , loud and long. By the time her chuckles died down, her forehead was pressed to the table and Isabela, grinning, was petting her hair.

"Maker," she gasped, "can you imagine? I wouldn't be able to hold it, either. Meredith has the only military might in the city. I can't stand against every damn templar in Kirkwall. There are _so many_."

"Aveline ought to rally the guard," Isabela mused. " _Then_ you'd have them."

"It almost sounds as if you _want_ me to be viscount," Hawke chuckled, wiping at her eyes. Rather than drink from her spiked tea, she took a swig straight from the bottle, too.

"No," Isabela said. "No, I'm still holding you to that promise, and besides, you'd make a terrible viscount. I mean, look at you. Just being a noble is bad for you. How long has it been since you got in a fight?"

Hawke blinked. "A few days, maybe. Why?"

"And how long has it been since you left Hightown?"

Her brow furrowed at that. "I'm not sure, actually. Maybe weeks?"

"It's bad for you, sweet thing," Isabela pressed. "You're a woman of action, not paperwork. You look like one of those wilted flowers Merrill keeps rescuing from nobles' gardens."

Hawke's smile had faded. "I don't have much choice. I'm Champion. I have responsibilities."

Seeing that she couldn't win this argument, Isabela sighed and stood. "You have a hard time with balance, Hawke."

Her lips twitched. "Balance, she says. As if she knows what it means."

"Fine, fine. I leave you to your dreadful responsibilities. Let me know when that pile shrinks." Isabela bent to offer Hawke a parting kiss, and she complied, arms reaching out to loop around Isabela's waist.

"Someday, we'll get away from all this," Hawke promised, returning to her missives.

 _Sooner rather than later,_ Isabela thought, already hatching a plan.

* * *

"You want me to do _what_?"

"For _Hawke_ ," Isabela wheedled, propping her boots on Aveline's desk. "Honestly, have you seen her lately?"

Aveline frowned, winced, and leaned forward on her desk, sliding fingers beneath her headband to rub at her temples. "No."

"Well, she looks terrible, and frankly, you do, too. We all need a night off."

"Every night is a night off for you," Aveline muttered, but it lacked the usual bite. "But I see your point."

"Bran can keep the nobles busy," Isabela went on, "and a few of your guards can make an appearance. Ooo, we can get caterers!"

"For the party that none of us will be at," Aveline replied, eyebrows raised.

"These nobles are vipers, big girl. We're going to need enough entertainment to keep them from wondering where their Champion is."

"And their Champion will be…"

"At the Hanged Man," Isabela said promptly. "Playing Wicked Grace, drinking herself silly, and having a much-deserved night off."

Aveline shook her head. "You've gotten soft, you know."

"Perish the thought. Hawke's terrible in bed when she's tired."

Aveline threw a book at her. Isabela laughed herself out.

* * *

"My tab was starting to feel neglected, honestly," Varric said, laying down his pen. "It's been forty-seven days since Hawke even set foot in this place."

"So you grasp the gravity of the situation," Isabela replied.

"Well enough. Hell, I don't think I've seen Hawke since that...dinner thing. About a month ago?" Varric scratched at the back of his neck. "Has she even left the estate?"

"Only to deal with the occasional gang violence." Isabela flipped through a few of Varric's papers. "She doesn't even take pleasure in it anymore. It's wham, bam, get it over with so I can go back to my boring paperwork."

"She got pretty deep in that crap while you were away," Varric said mildly.

She knew he didn't mean it to, but oh, that cut deep. She knew the years she'd been gone from Kirkwall had been hard on Hawke, but only now was she beginning to grasp the reality of it: that Hawke, left to her own devices, would grow old and pale from lack of sunlight and too many nights pouring over demands from this noble and requests from that shopkeeper.

Isabela would take her away from all that, just as soon as Hawke was good and ready.

"Well, I'm here now," she said, getting up, "so let's fix this."

* * *

"There are a _lot_ of guards in Lowtown tonight," Hawke commented, nodding to a passing patrol.

"As compared to…?" Isabela prompted, tugging her along.

"As compared to two months ago? A _lot_ more guards."

"You know Aveline," Isabela dismissed. "Always on about public safety."

"Yes," Hawke replied, amused, "how dareshe? Are you _sure_ I wasn't invited to that thing at the Viscount's?"

"Did you find an invitation in your piles of boring paperwork?" Isabela asked, as though being patient with a very dense person.

"No." Hawke frowned. "It just seems so strange."

"Perhaps they decided you had better things to do than go to parties all the time," Isabela replied.

"Well, there's nothing for me to do _here_. I haven't seen a single thug. Odd, since I thought Lowtown was _only_ full of thugs."

"I resent that," Isabela chuckled.

"Wait," Hawke said, seeing the telltale Hanged Man looming ahead. "Why are we—"

Isabela turned around to face her, hands propped on her hips, and raised a single eyebrow. _I must be absolutely as unobservant as she says I've been_ , Hawke thought, _if I didn't see this coming the_ instant _she showed up at my estate tonight. Just when I was fretting I had nothing to do, too._

But she wasn't angry. How could she be, when beneath the exasperated expression, there was a hint of nerves in the stiff set of Isabela's shoulders?

"You planned this," Hawke said, just to be sure.

"So what if I did?" Isabela lifted her chin. "Are you telling me you _don't_ want a night off of your incredibly dull duties?"

"I take time off," Hawke said, a little defensively, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not _always_ shut up in my estate."

"If you're not shut up in your estate, you're working your hardest to get _back_ to being shut up in your estate." Isabela shoulders relaxed; she reached out, one hand beckoning, for Hawke. "Come on. One night, let's just...pretend it's like before. Old times. Everyone's waiting for you."

Hawke hesitated, but honestly, there was no fighting the hopeful look on Isabela's face. "Fine," she conceded. "One night."

"Fantastic." Isabela took her hand. "Now come on, we're already late."

The thing Hawke loved about The Hanged Man the most—well, it was hard to pick one thing. Maybe it was the way everyone shouted "Hawke!" when she walked in, a casual cheer that didn't sound at all like _Champion_. Maybe it was the whiskey that Nora immediately shoved into her hand, or Corff and that red-headed kid arguing at the bar. Maybe it was the way everyone in the bar went back to their own damned business after greeting her—not asking her for a thing, not watching her or hanging on her every word.

Already, the headache she'd been cultivating for weeks was fading. By the time they reached the table at the back of the bar, Hawke was grinning.

"Lethallan!" Merrill chirped.

"It's been so long since I saw you without that paint crap, I almost didn't recognize you," Varric joked.

"Shut up, Tethras, and deal me in," Hawke said, sitting down across from Fenris, who offered up a small smile in greeting. "I come ready to lose every coin on my person."

"Maybe your pants, too," Isabela suggested, grinning.

Aveline was there, out of armor, her ginger hair straggling loose of her headband after a few drinks. Anders too, brow furrowed at his cards, the occasional worn smile crossing his face at one of Varric's absurd retellings of their adventures. Fenris won more than a few hands, and Hawke suspected Isabela had been teaching him to cheat, though he only smiled and declared she was drunk when she accused him of it. Merrill announced her cards to the table well ahead of the time she ought to, one way or another, and Sebastian choked on his water more than once at one of Isabela's jokes.

Her stomach ached with laughing. Maker, but she'd missed them all.

* * *

By the end of the night, Hawke leaned heavily on Isabela's shoulder, her words just slightly too loud. "Look," she said proudly, showing her final hand. "'s good, isn't it?"

"Very good," Isabela agreed, grinning.

"We need more drinks," Hawke declared, heaving herself up. "Nora! Where's she got to…" She craned her neck, searching for the waitress.

Nora stood at a table of louts, enduring their many demands with a long-suffering look on her face. It seemed to have been going on quite a while.

Hawke rested a hand on Isabela's shoulder for balance as she got to her feet. "Hey," she called, staggering just a bit. "Leave Nora alone, will you? She's got more tables to serve than just you lot."

The men at the table had not been there a few hours ago; they smelled faintly of salt, as though they'd been recently at sea.

"What're you going to do about it?" one of them snickered.

Without her ceremonial paint, without her fine armor, they didn't recognize her as Champion. They thought she was just another drunk, making threats she couldn't carry out.

One moment, Hawke was barely balanced on her own feet; the next, her daggers were drawn and she was bounding forward. Isabela smelled a faint whiff of the concoction Hawke sniffed to sober up when she was needed, at a moment's notice, in a fight.

She turned the blade at the last second to punch the man in the face instead. He overbalanced and hit the floor, chair clattering into the dust and wood.

His fellows got to their feet. Isabela vaulted over her bench; she heard Fenris knock over his chair in his haste to rise, saw a stone fly past that Merrill had cast, a sharp whistle—Aveline's—rallying them all.

This was _not_ the way Isabela had planned the night to end. A bar brawl was not particularly relaxing, but—

Then she heard it, above the scuffle and grunts of kicks being absorbed; in between her quick gasps for air, Hawke was _laughing_ , high and amused. The more the thugs cursed, the more wildly they swung, the harder she laughed, until they were all either on the ground, out cold, or scrambling for the door.

"They didn't know," she gasped, kicking one in the ribs for good measure, "who I _am_."

She started laughing again, and the whole bar laughed with her, for everyone who was left knew _exactly_ who she was.

* * *

"It was fun while it lasted," Hawke said, a little wistfully, as they stepped into the foyer. She sat down to untie her boots.

"It's not over _yet_ ," Isabela informed her. She reached up and carefully pulled the bandana from her hair.

There was something about that—about her hair falling loose around her shoulders in the half-light of the drowsing estate, the slight curve of her lips, her unblinking eyes—that made Hawke's mouth go dry.

"Oh?" she asked, working to keep her voice even.

Isabela stepped a little closer. "Trust me?"

The low dip of her voice made Hawke's skin prickle, as though the sound itself had reached out to caress her, all too fleeting.

Isabela leaned down. For the briefest of moments, Hawke had a fantastic view of her cleavage, and then she tied the bandana around Hawke's eyes. It wasn't a perfect blindfold—a bit of light crept through the outer edges, showing Hawke the dim gold of the embroidery, the sky blue of the silk—but it did the job passably well.

"What are you up to?" she asked.

"Come on," Isabela encouraged, pulling her gently to her feet. "It'll be _fun_."

Grinning—and feeling a little silly—Hawke looped her arm through Isabela's for balance and followed her steps carefully. "Fine, but if you've had all the furniture rearranged in my absence…"

Isabela let out a peal of laughter. The sound was somehow richer, without Hawke's sight to show her Isabela's face. "No, you goose. That wouldn't be sexy at all, would it? Unless you find stubbed toes sexy, which, you know, tell me now…"

Hawke laughed, too, and by the time she stopped, Isabela tugged at her arm to halt her progress. "Stairs here," she said helpfully, slightly higher than before.

Hawke went along, bare toes feeling out the steps, fingers firmer on Isabela's arm. "There's no one awake, right?" she asked, a touch nervously. "This would be a pain to explain to Orana…"

"They're all tucked away in their beds," Isabela reassured her.

Hawke knew the route without having to look. Isabela was tugging her toward the bedroom now. The rug was soft beneath her bare feet, cool to the touch from the night air. There was a window open on the other side of the landing, letting in the breeze that played around her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

Her room, though, was still. There was a faint warmth from the low fire on the left side of the room.

"Now, sit," Isabela said, guiding her to the bed, "and don't move."

Hawke sat still at the edge of the bed—still as a statue, one might even say, though Isabela paid her caricatured motionless no mind—and listened to Isabela bustle around the room. She could hear the scrape of the fire being built up, the soft click of the door shutting. When it was done, there was the quiet whisper of cloth, not so far from Hawke—the gentle clink of metal—

She couldn't be sure until Isabela stepped close to her, body filling the space between Hawke's legs, but then she reached out, automatic, to rest her hands on Isabela's hips and they were bare, the flesh warm and inviting beneath her fingers.

Before she could make a single joke about being overdressed, Isabela leaned down to kiss her. Deep, like she would crawl inside if she had the chance, her lips slow and fluid over Hawke's, swallowing the low sigh of relief billowing up from her throat. Her hands rested at Hawke's shoulders, her thumbs light on the ridge of her collarbone, barely snaking beneath Hawke's tunic to touch bare skin, and Maker—somehow Hawke always forgot how much, exactly, she _wanted_ Isabela until moments like these—

She took her time, one hand drifting up Hawke's neck to cup her cheek, tilting her head to just the angle she wanted, deepening the kiss with her tongue, and Hawke let her. Her skin felt different when Hawke couldn't see what she was doing, every ridged scar standing out, every dip and curve like a map beneath her hands. She counted the valleys between ribs and then reached around Isabela's back to haul her closer, pressing their bodies together, and a low, guttural moan of approval slipped into Hawke's mouth, the rhythm of the kiss breaking on the sound.

Isabela's hands slipped down, freeing a few buttons on Hawke's tunic with skilled fingers. While she worked, Hawke brushed her lips over Isabela's cheek, down her jaw, open-mouthed kisses on the exposed line of her throat. A soft sigh, interrupted by a huff of impatience, and Isabela pushed Hawke back to whip the tunic off over her head.

Balls, it had been ages since she'd felt so relaxed. She couldn't remember the last time they'd even had sex. The paperwork, the responsibilities, didn't seem so important now.

"Lay down," Isabela said, and Hawke shuffled awkwardly to the center of the bed and settled against the pillows.

The mattress dipped. Isabela's fingers tugged at the laces of her trousers and pulled them neatly down over her hips. She shivered, and Isabela traced the swell of one breast with loving fingers before sliding her hands beneath Hawke's back to untie the band that bound them.

Isabela's soft thighs pressed in tight around her hips, and Hawke groaned, lifting her hands to wrap around them just as Isabela kissed her. Her teeth nipped at Hawke's lower lip, and then she trailed kisses down, down, down, into the hollow of her throat. She lingered there, tongue slipping out to caress skin, and Hawke's fingers clenched tighter on her thighs—

Isabela slid down her body—all that bare warm skin she couldn't see, pressing to her every inch, their legs languidly intertwined, the heat of Isabela's center against her thigh—and cupped one of her breasts in a sure hand. The other, she kissed, from the swell toward the peak, wet, suckling marks that never quite reached Hawke's nipple. She groaned her frustration, hips bucking up against Isabela, a shock of pressure between her legs where their bodies overlapped.

Isabela chuckled, rolling Hawke's other nipple between her fingers. "Something you want, sweet thing?"

"You," Hawke said, her voice too hoarse, too earnest, to be teasing. "Always you."

Isabela rewarded her for that, taking her nipple between her lips; Hawke moaned at the warmth of her mouth, the broad wet of her tongue, the slightest graze of her teeth—

And then Isabela slid down again, leaving her bereft. Her lips left marks over Hawke's ribs, down her navel. She paid special attention to the scar left by the Arishok's blade, sweet licks combined with suckling caresses.

Hawke _burned_. It was impossible not to undulate her hips in time with Isabela's mouth, which was working the most wonderful magic on her flesh. Isabela smoothed her hands over Hawke's hips, and she ached for Isabela to kiss her lower, to lick her open and take her apart—

As soon as she thought of it, it seemed, Isabela spread her thighs apart with her shoulders and leaned closer to Hawke's center. Her warm breath against Hawke's flesh was enough to make her throb, harder than before, her heartbeat heavy between her thighs.

But Isabela took her slowly, _so_ slowly; her tongue traced Hawke's slit with great patience, the lightest of caresses, until her lips opened beneath the barest of pressure. With every pass, she tasted Hawke just a little bit deeper; she lingered, slightly longer, at the end of each stroke, only just brushing the tight, hard nub of Hawke's fraying nerves—

When Hawke was soaked and quivering and rocking against Isabela's face, Isabela spread her open with her fingers and pressed her lips to the glistening opening of Hawke's cunt. Hawke felt her tongue flick out and softly trace the circle of muscle a few times before easing in and sliding out, slow, torturous. Her fingers traced up to slide over Hawke's clit, a languid motion too slow for Hawke to get any relief.

"Poor thing," she heard Isabela murmur, with a wet kiss to her inner thigh. "So wound up."

"Isabela, _please_ —"

Isabela's lips closed over her clit before she could get another word out. Two fingers slid, steady and sure, into her cunt. She paired shallow thrusts with steady suckling, and before Hawke could beg again, she'd come apart, eyes squeezed shut, hands fisted in Isabela's hair; she wasn't at all sure when she'd put them there.

When she'd sunk, boneless, into the mattress, Isabela stretched her body over Hawke's and pressed a messy kiss to her lips. Hawke could feel how wet she was against her thigh, could hear her arousal in her soft panting; she followed the curve of Isabela's hip with her hand until she could part her lips with her fingers, slipping easily into the slick heat of her. She stroked, slow at first, and Isabela rolled against her hand, the pitch of her moan rising with every firm circle, every rhythmic caress.

"There," Isabela whined, her fingers almost painfully tight on Hawke's arm, "there—Hawke, _Hawke_ —"

She shuddered, a throaty moan spilling from her throat, and pressed hard against Hawke's hand, quivering. Hawke worked her through it, her fingers lighter and lighter until Isabela had melted against the sheets, sighing. Her hand groped near Hawke's face, finally plucking the bandana from her eyes. Hawke looped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, blinking from the light of the fire, and buried her face in Isabela's throat.

"Mmf," she murmured. "I should take a night off more often."

Isabela chuckled. " _Now_ she sees."

Hawke pressed a kiss to her collarbone, and Isabela's fingers traced down her side, over the curve of her hip. "Well, there's a lot more night left," she said, coyly as she could manage with Isabela's hand stroking her thigh.

Isabela smirked, her eyes glinting in the firelight. "I knew you were still in there. Somewhere, underneath all that paper, screaming to be let out—"

Hawke laughed, and then gasped, for Isabela's fingers had found their mark.

"Don't worry," Isabela said, soft, directly in Hawke's ear, right before she nipped at the shell of it. "I can make you scream for entirely _better_ reasons."

She certainly made good on her promises, for a pirate.


End file.
